He despised them.  He was a man of taste and culture, a gentleman of refinement.  He spent his money like a gentleman, to surround himself with objects of art and to give himself and his friends pleasure.  Connoisseurs came to look at his fine collection and to revel in his rare editions.  Dealers had told him his collection was worth double what it had cost him.  He had frowned at the suggestion; but it was satisfactory to know it.

As Livingstone entered his library and found a bright fire burning; his favorite arm-chair drawn up to his especial table; his favorite books lying within easy reach, he felt a momentary glow.

He stretched himself out before the fire in his deep lounging-chair with a feeling of relief.  The next moment, however, he was sensible of his fatigue, and was conscious that he had quite a headache.  What a fool he had been to walk up through the snow!  And those people had worried him!

His head throbbed.  He had been working too hard of late.  He would go and see his doctor next day and talk it over with him.  He could now take his advice and stop working for a while; he was worth—­Confound those figures!  Why could not he think of them without their popping in before his eyes that way!

There was a footfall on the heavily carpeted floor behind him, so soft that it could scarcely be said to have made a sound, but Livingstone caught it.  He spoke without turning his head.

“James!”

“Yes, sir.  Have you dined, sir?”

“Dined?  No, of course not!  Where was I to dine?”

“I thought perhaps you had dined at the club.  I will have dinner directly, sir,” said the butler quietly.

“Dine at the club!  Why should I dine at the club?  Haven’t I my own house to dine in?” demanded Livingstone.

“Yes, sir.  We had dinner ready, only—­as you were so late we thought perhaps you were dining at the club.  You had not said anything about dining out.”

Livingstone glanced at the clock.  It was half-past eight.  He had had no idea it was so late.  He had forgotten how late it was when he left his office, and the walk through the snow had been slow.  He was hopelessly in the wrong.

Just then there was a scurry in the hall outside and the squeak of childish voices.  James coughed and turned quickly towards the door.

Livingstone wanted an outlet.

“What is that?” he asked, sharply.

James cleared his throat nervously.  The squeak came again—­this time almost a squeal.

“Whose children are those?” demanded Livingstone.

“Ahem!  I thinks they’s the laundress’s, sir.  They just came around this evening—­”

Livingstone cut him short.

“Well!  I—!” He was never nearer an outbreak, but he controlled himself.

“Go down and send them and her off immediately; and you—­” He paused, closed his lips firmly, and changed his speech.  “I wish some dinner,” he said coldly.